


That Is Rather Unlikely

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, This is very much Jam's fault, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5477405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. Jam asked for this... And you all need to keep that in mind. Then again, the idea was so cute, and a bit cracky, and I couldn't resist... So consider this celebration for then end of a gorgeous Mystrade fic that I've been reading (go read Memoranda of Understanding - yes all 3 parts - by Mydwynter)</p>
<p>
  <i>“Funny story,” John bit out with a humorless laugh.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Isn’t it always.” He braced himself. This was going to be a doozy if John didn’t think it was funny.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“But the punchline is: Not Sherlock.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Greg furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, ‘Not Sherlock’?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah, no. It’s the other one.” The grin on John’s face was carrying through the phone.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Other what?” Greg asked flatly.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Holmes.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Goddammit,” Greg hissed. “What’s he done?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Is Rather Unlikely

“Lestrade.”

“Hey, Greg. Am I… You busy?”

“Erm,” Greg’s face scrunched. “Not entirely, no.” He glanced around the dilapidated warehouse with a frown. He wasn’t busy per say. He was just in the middle of a crime scene. One that shouldn’t make him too busy. And one he really didn’t need Sherlock traipsing about.

“You’re busy,” John offered. “Never mind. I’ll sort something.”

Ah. That wasn’t good. “What’s wrong?”

There was a tone that John Watson had. One where he was downplaying something important. One where he was trying to minimize collateral damage. “Ah, it’s fine. It’ll… Yeah. No. It’ll keep. Give me a shout when you’re free yeah? We’re overdue for pints.”

“Don’t lie to me, John.” Greg crammed his free hand in his jacket pocket. The pair of them had been too well behaved for too long. “What’s he done?”

“Funny story,” John bit out with a humorless laugh.

“Isn’t it always.” He braced himself. This was going to be a doozy if John didn’t think it was funny.

“But the punchline is: Not Sherlock.”

Greg furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, ‘Not Sherlock’?”

“Yeah, no. It’s the other one.” The grin on John’s face was carrying through the phone.

“Other what?” Greg asked flatly.

“Holmes.”

“Goddammit,” Greg hissed. “What’s he done?”

“Eh…” John made a vague sound. “I think you probably should just come and collect him.”

“Collect him? Where are you?” Greg stomped towards his car, making a series of odd hand gestures at Dimmock and Donovan along the way.

“You know his office in Whitehall?”

“Do I know…” He had to grit his teeth. “Hang on,” he covered the receiver. “DONOVAN!” It really only required him pointing at her and at the tape and at the phone and Sally caught the gist. It was her scene. Well, it was Dimmock’s scene, which meant it was really hers. And she would call as soon as they found something.

“You are busy,” John muttered. “Anything interesting?”

“Do not test me,” Greg slammed himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t really _do_ anything,” John chuckled. “But… he’s asking for you. And I really think you ought to just come down here and see for yourself.”

“Arsehole,” Greg groaned.

“Oh, and how’s the video on your new mobile?”

Greg groaned again and hung up the phone.

~o~

“Gregory!”

Greg froze as the door closed behind him. What in the bloody hell?

“You came! I knew you would come,” Mycroft declared rather gleefully from his position in an artful sprawl across his office couch.

“Uh…” He glanced at John first. John was reasonable. Clearly he knew this was not normal. John was wearing one of his unique expressions, the one that normally meant that Sherlock was doing something completely socially unacceptable and it was amusing. “What the hell is wrong with him?!”

John cleared his throat and tipped his head back and forth for a moment. “Far as we can tell, someone tried to poison him.”

“Poison!” Greg barked. “What do you mean, ‘poison’?!”

That smug, wry smile was back on John’s face. “You know how it is… He’s not really forthcoming about… his work…”

“It is fine, Gregory. I am fine. I am wonderful really. You are wonderful.”

There was a moment of panic as Greg thought he might have swallowed his own tongue. “Why is he still here? Get him to a bloody hospital!”

John pulled a face. “Yeah. We… We tried that. He’s not too keen.”

“What John is, rather delicately trying to convey is that my brother is a moron. One of his compatriots managed to slip something into his tea at one of the many tedious parleys within the past three hours. Mycroft, quite idiotically, didn’t seem to notice.” Sherlock gave his brother vicious grin. “You’re slowing down, brother dear.”

Mycroft gave an exaggerated frown. “You are slowing down.”

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So you can’t bring him to a hospital for… National security reasons?”

Sherlock grinned again. “Ah, clever you.”

“See, Sherlock. I have told you again and again. Mine is clever. I am pleased you have the wherewithal to admit it.”

Greg winced. ‘Mine.’ “And you’re sure he doesn’t need a hospital? There’s got to be some super secret, MI-5 only medical facility in the basement or something.”

John cut off Sherlock’s sure to be scathing response. “It’s not life threatening. Whatever it is. And we’re working on the who and the what.”

“Whom, Dr. Watson. It is an object pronoun,” Mycroft murmured absently.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“Oi!” Greg barked. “Don’t yell at him. Jesus.”

John waited for them both to calm down. “As I was saying, not life threatening. But it seems to be a… disinhibitor of sorts.”

“A disinhibitor?” Greg asked flatly. “As in…”

“I mean, honestly, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice remained the tiniest bit slurred. “You are the one that suggested I needed to find myself a goldfish. And instead,” he waved a hand loosely at Greg. “I have managed a silver fox.”

Sherlock recoiled slightly. John pursed his lips in an effort not to laugh. Greg flinched. Oh God.

“All you have is a prickly, little, hedgehog.”

It shouldn’t have been funny, but the way Mycroft squinted at John, trying to bring him into focus or stare him down only managed to squish his face into an expression of perplexity. Sherlock sneered. John made a brief squeak as he struggled to bite back a giggle. God, everyone in the room was an arsehole. “Are we just supposed to wait for it to wear off?” Greg asked helplessly.

“Yeah. Basically,” John smiled. “But common sense says not to leave him on his own.”

“And perhaps one shouldn’t leave him anywhere near his office where he might start a war,” Sherlock added gleefully.

“Wait, you brought me here to babysit him?!”

“Clearly,” Sherlock muttered the same moment that John said, “Course not.”

“I do not need a babysitter, Sherlock. You need a babysitter. A nanny. A mummy. A nunny?” Mycroft waved a hand at Sherlock and was suddenly mesmerized by the movement of his own fingers.

“There might be a dash of hallucinogenic in whatever they gave him,” John had to bite his lip to keep from grinning.

“Oh God,” Greg groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Mmn, Gregory?” Mycroft’s face went soft and fond. “You should bring your pert bum closer.”

His face went a deep shade of crimson almost instantly. He was never going to be able to look Sherlock in the face again.

“And like I said,” John sighed in not at all an apologetic fashion and gestured helplessly. “He’s been asking for you.”

~o~

“The official story is that he’s recovering from a bout of gastrointestinal illness,” her fingers continued to tap out a rapid message. “Perhaps food poisoning. He’ll be unable to attend to his duties for the remainder of the day, and well into tomorrow. If at all possible, I will reschedule him through Wednesday.”

“That is quite absurd. I am never sick. And I certainly never take time off of work for simple gastroenteritis.”

Greg sighed. It would almost have been a normal conversation if they weren’t in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars. And Mycroft wasn’t methodically flipping every switch he could reach while keeping his head planted firmly in Greg’s lap. “Don’t I fucking know it.”

Anthea arched a brow at him and diverted her attention back to her mobile. “The Chancellor of the Exchequer has conveyed his utmost sympathies and is happy to reschedule as his daughter has her school concert tomorrow.” She paused and a tiny flicker of a frown appeared at the corner of her mouth. “The Deputy Sultan of Brunei is rather adamant that his trip not prove fruitless.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Would not Woosley lament? Tell him that I shall make a personal donation to the Florio Society. That was his society of choice at the time, was it not? That should shut him up.”

“Mycroft,” Greg scolded. “Bite your tongue.”

Anthea smirked. Or, at least, Greg thought she did. Maybe. For a moment.

“Bite my tongue? Whatever for?” Mycroft nuzzled his face into Greg’s belly. “You are far better known for biting than I am. Anthea, were you aware that I was unable to wear my lovely Italian spread, Steed shirt for a week due to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s propensity for biting.”

Greg groaned as he averted his eyes to the window. Oh look, London buildings. How interesting.

“I was unaware, Sir,” Anthea said, her voice laced with humor.

“How long do they think he’ll be like this?” Greg asked for what was likely the fifth time.

“Not long,” Anthea answered.

~o~

Negotiating the distance from the car to the couch had been… an experience. A trial in patience as Mycroft was unsteady on his feet, but unwilling to admit it; an exercise in tolerance as the carpet pattern in the hallway was apparently quite challenging for someone on a hallucinogenic; and an extreme stretch of Greg’s dignity as a high Mycroft turned out to also be quite handsy. And even once safely locked into Mycroft’s study, Greg still found himself pinned to the sofa with a slightly delirious, rambling, overly affectionate, lanky git sprawled atop him. It had taken roughly an hour for Mycroft to fall asleep, or pass out, or both. And Greg gave up, dozing lightly and waking occasionally to make sure Mycroft wasn’t any worse, or drooling too heavily.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Greg snuffled and rubbed his eyes before risking opening them to find a very awake, rather cross looking Mycroft staring down at him. “Ah, good morning.”

“It’s the evening. And you did not answer my question. What are you doing?”

Greg furrowed his brow. “See you’ve gone back to using contractions. That’s probably good, yeah?”

“Why is my hand under your shirt?”

Greg frowned and thought for a moment. “Probably because you put it there?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, searching Greg’s face. “That is rather unlikely at this time of day. Speaking of, why am I not in the office? I have a number of unavoidable meetings to see to and…”

Greg groaned and shifted, finding his left arm tingling from what had to have been the weight of Mycroft’s big head lying on it. “You don’t remember.” He was rough but cautious as he sat up and nudged Mycroft back, just on the off chance the berk’s balance was still poor. “Of course you don’t.”

“Don’t remember? Gregory, please. There is not a single moment…”

Greg held up a finger to silence him as he dialed his phone. Mycroft frowned. “John, hey. Any news?”

“Er… Possibly.”

“Don’t give me possibly. What’s Sherlock say about this?”

Mycroft’s phone buzzed, and upon reading the message, Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“He’s smirking at his phone, so I assume Mycroft is better?”

Greg huffed. “He’s awake, if that’s what you mean.”

“Awake but… Oh… Shit,” John muttered. “It was an amnesic was it?”

Greg nodded for a moment before he realized how useless it was. “Looks like.”

“Right. Ok.” John sniffed. “Right. What about… No, Sherlock, do NOT!”

The line cut out and Greg stared at the mobile in horror for a moment. Then he heard a tinny replica of his own voice emanating from the other end of the sofa. Oh no. And Mycroft’s voice. And Sherlock’s voice. He had a god damned video. He groaned again and dropped back against the cushions, letting his head roll onto the back of the couch. Maybe he could just die of pure embarrassment. Oh look. That was a rather interesting ceiling.

It took him a moment to notice that the sounds had cut out. Well, he only really noticed that when Mycroft cleared his throat neatly and returned his attention to Greg’s face. “It seems I have been… Somewhat out of character today.”

Greg snorted and draped his arm across his eyes simply so he didn’t have to look Mycroft in the eyes. Out of character: understatement of the century. “Yeah. Maybe a bit.”

“You must understand that I was hallucinating heavily.”

“Yeah. Got that bit.”

“And my… manner might have been unreserved.”

Greg snorted again.

“And it has been pointed out that when left unchecked, I apparently lean towards loquacious and candid.”

Greg just shook his head.

“And I apologize if that has left you feeling uncomfortable.”

“What?” Greg dropped his arm and blinked up at the ceiling.

“It was never my intent, and I would hope that we might move forward from this incident.”

“No, no,” Greg sat up. “Go back. That other thing.”

“What other thing?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Greg leaned forward. “That bit where you were apologizing.”

“Gregory, please.”

A small grin cracked across his face. “Because it sounded to me like you were saying sorry for the fact that someone drugged you and you made a bit of a tit of yourself.”

Mycroft huffed. “I am not above the influence of illicit drugs.”

“Oh. Was it something else you were apologizing for?”

“Well, I’d rather wish I had not aired our public business in the presence of my brother,” Mycroft sighed with irritation.

“Oh, you mean that bit where you said I was clever and I belonged to you?” Greg pressed his tongue against his lower lip to hide the smile. “Or are you talking about where you told your assistant that my slight oral fixation hinders your wardrobe choices?”

Mycroft flushed. “I’m sorry?”

Greg grinned outright. “I believe your exact words were ‘I couldn’t wear my poncy shirt with the low collar because Greg did exactly what I’d asked of him.’”

Mycroft tilted his head and tried to frown. “That does not sound like something I would say.”

Greg raised his brows. “Well, you don’t have to take my word for it. Ring Anthea. She’ll probably lie, but it’s exactly what happened.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “So, I have been speaking unhindered in front of multiple people. Anything else I should know of?”

“Ah,” he scratched the nape of his neck as he ducked his head. “Did you know that you get very,” he paused, trying to pick the right word. “Tactile?”

“Tactile?”

“Yeah. Tactile.” Greg blushed slightly. “You know…” He gestured weakly.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Quite.” Mycroft considered that for a moment. “So my hand…”

“Yeah.”

“Mmn,” Mycroft blinked. “Am I correct to assume that I insisted you be contacted?”

“Uh.” Greg felt a proper blush spread up the back of his neck. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

“Gregory?”

“What?”

Mycroft caught his gaze and watched, studied, parsing out each micro expression as it flit across his face. “You are attempting to spare my feelings.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t.”

“Mycroft…” Greg sighed. “You were drugged. Who knows what you were thinking?”

“I suspect, that a simple logical thought process would be one that first recognizes the compromised state of mental capacity, then quickly seeks sanctuary. Would you not agree?”

“Are you calling me safe?”

Mycroft tilted his head in acquiescence.

He huffed out a laugh. “Except for my biting?”

“As you mentioned, that was consensual.”

“Except for the shirt issue.”

“Gregory.”

“What?”

“You abandoned work to monitor my well-being. You tolerated not only uncharacteristic but inappropriate language and behaviors on my part in order to see me safely home.”

“Eh.”

“Gregory.”

“What?” he made the mistake of making eye contact again, and the intensity of Mycroft’s intent. After a few hours of watching bleary squinting and unfocused blue eyes trying to sort reality from aberration, the sharp and clear committed gaze was daunting. It clenched in his chest and made it hard to breathe.

Mycroft leaned forward, moving smoothly into Greg’s personal space. “Gregory,” he murmured. Greg made an inquisitive noise as Mycroft inched closer, planting a hand on either side of Greg’s shoulders. “Gregory. I did not call you safe.” His knees came up, one at a time, to frame Greg’s hips. “I called you sanctuary.”

“I… I don’t know what that means.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up as he cocked a brow and let his weight settle along Greg’s lap. “It means everything.”

Oh. “Oh,” Greg breathed. And managed to suck in a deep breath before Mycroft’s lips were on his in, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. Oh…


End file.
